Hospitalia
by NekoMushi
Summary: Hospital!AU. Like I said earlier, this is an ordinary hospital in an ordinary environment with ordinary surroundings. But, let me tell you now that the people who dwell inside this hospital are definitely not ordinary. Other genres: friendship and romance. Lots of pairings introduced later.
1. Prologue

**Warning!**  
_This story contains strong language, upsetting themes {death, terminal illnesses, emotional backstories etc.}, angst, certain pairings, mild romance and drama. If you feel that something here should be addressed more tentatively, please message me and I will take your comments into consideration. Thank you._

**A/N;  
**_This is my first Hetalia fanfic, and I decided to start it off with something that's been brewing up in my mind for the last few days. I spoke to my friend about it, and she thought it was a cool plot, and she'll be helping me with this a lot. Please leave a review giving me your thoughts about it and whether you think I should continue or not. _

**Disclaimer;  
**_I do not own Hetalia nor do I own any of the characters in Hetalia either. In no way does this fanfiction actually represent the real countries. It is AU, so everything written here is purely for fiction and nothing else._

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**Prologue I**

What is there to say, really, about the city hospital? It stands on the 'border' - as some would call it - between suburbia - where perfectly normal people go about their perfectly normal lives - and town - the jewel of any city where youngsters can get as drunk as they want without old, crabby folk shouting out of their front door dressed in creased pyjamas and night-gowns. With its plain, white-washed walls, the usual jam-packed car park, and reception area, complete with large windows so you can see the bright downtown lights glittering like unnatural gems in the distance, it clearly _looks _like an ordinary hospital. Truth be told; it _is _an ordinary hospital.

Many people make small-talk with strangers, discussing how convenient the position of the building is; being somewhat close to the motorway, the ambulances rarely have far to go if there's a car accident, and on the outskirts of those long streets, chock-a-block with houses just waiting for a disaster to happen. Who knows? Perhaps a heart-attack or a broken arm from missing a step whilst rushing down the stairs. It could be anything, and the hospital is just a half-mile away. Thanks to the railway being close by too – of course, this is where sober teens board the train, gossiping and gaggling about having a great night out, and come off drunk, disorientated and barfing their brains out – it's easy for people to hop onto the tracks {clearly not literally; you'd probably get run over} and make their way to the prestigious building if they ever get that dreaded phone call at work; "I'm sorry, sir, but there appears to have been an accident involving your son –"

This is all in a day's work for the hospital and the staff who work there. They arrive early, dismissing the night-nurses and A&E crews, and greeting the patients from the previous day with warm smiles and a plate full of breakfast. Normally, when you visit, there's a cheerful lady at the reception, waiting to take your name or direct you down the right corridor, and a kindly doctor who lays you down on a bed and quickly inspects that nasty cut that you got from falling in a ditch the other day.

As much as this story is centred around the staff and indeed, the hospital itself, there are many other aspects of it too, though. Like I said earlier, this is an ordinary hospital, in an ordinary environment with ordinary surroundings. But, let me tell you now; the people who dwell inside this hospital are definitely _not _ordinary.

An easy place to start would be the doctors themselves; you, as the reader, might imagine that these are the most casual people in the world. You only ever see the bright side of them, when they look at you across the desk, nodding with understanding as you express your medical fears and worries to them, and it would be impossible for you or me to tell what darkness _really _lies beneath their calm, impassive expressions whilst they hand you a prescription or type up your details on a computer. Though, I think that we should all take into account that these strange beings clad in white coats, seemingly perfect and god-like, are humans too.

Just like us, they go home exasperated and clutching their temples as they struggle to comprehend the difficult thoughts that secluded their mind that day. Just like us, they find it hard to wake up in the mornings when the alarm goes off, and even harder to take those first few steps out of the steaming shower, wrapped loosely in a towel whilst stifling a yawn. And, just like us, they enjoy laughter, friendship and having the ability to empathise with people who find such things a mystery or a blessing.

Perhaps, the first person to bring our attention to should be Doctor Beilschmidt, as he is one of the doctors who completely disregards my previous explanation about human beings and seems to have his own course of life. Instead of hanging on troublesome thoughts as he drives home, he just doesn't think at all. Well, he _does _think, but it's mainly about the road in front of him otherwise he would most certainly crash. Instead of spending most of his morning relishing the delicious warmth of the shower, he somehow manages to rush through an icy torrent of freezing water as slick as a sharpened knife cutting through butter.

And lastly, instead of enjoying the joyous sounds of children laughing, he blocks it out, finding it a distraction and nuisance to his work. But, let me tell you now; this tall, buff-looking man with the freshly combed hair and piercing gaze is not someone whom you might refer to as "cold" or "callous." He _is _a doctor after all, and he _does _have to deal with problems, so, don't just assume that he's a terrible person whom everyone dreads to meet in dark alley, because there is far, _far _more to Doctor Beilschmidt that you would originally think.

Moving onwards, I feel it is necessary to address Doctor Carriedo next. A loving man with a passion for passion itself, he is laid-back and cheerful, never without a smile plastered on his face. Much unlike his co-worked, Ludwig {whom you know as Doctor Beilschmidt} Doctor Carriedo, more commonly known as Antonio, or Toni for short, isn't afraid to embrace expression and emotion with a great bear-hug and a cheesy grin. I guess the only thing that these two would ever have in common is the fact that they are treating to same person, but that is yet to be discussed.

Ah yes - now for the _second _Doctor Beilschmidt. Perhaps I should have mentioned this doctor first, as he is often referred to as Doctor Beilschmidt, unlike his younger brother who is called Doctor Ludwig instead to avoid confusion. Some consider it unlucky to be in the same workplace as a sibling {in fact, I hadn't noticed it before, but there are many siblings who work together in this hospital}, even though Doctor Beilschmidt finds it both amusing and intriguing. From this, he gauges a lot about his brother's behaviour and finds it easier to irritate him by pointing out his flaws and mistakes constantly.

Of course, that's what Doctor Beilschmidt does; he finds that his main role in life is to piss people off. Especially Doctor Ludwig. It's not very professional considering the workplace he's been stationed in, but at least he has the correct qualifications and knows the difference between patients and his little brother. Doctor Beilschmidt's appearance has always been rather odd; his unnaturally pale skin and tone and hair colour is one thing, but his eyes are another matter entirely.

He suffers {well, I wouldn't say he _suffers _from it} from an eye discolouration known as vertical heterochromia iridium. In short, his eyes are a little bit weird looking. Some would argue that they have a light, pinkish hue, whilst others would disagree and insist that they were a maroon colour. Either way, the colours blending together in his eyes are certainly not common. However, the egotistical young man pays no heed to his odd appearance, as not many people ever challenge or bother him about it, maybe due to the fact that it looks like he could kill them if he wanted to.

And last, but most certainly _not _least, is the man with the charming smile that could literally melt your heart, and the eyes that young nurses refer to as "simply gorgeous." The one – the only, Doctor Bonnefoy! Seems like a massive run-up to a fat piece of nothing, doesn't it? Many rumours spread like wild-fire around the hospital about him having inappropriate and illegal relationships with female patients, but I assure you, _none_ of them are true in the slightest. He may have had multiple relationships in the past, but even this lady-killer knows the difference between a flirtatious woman and a sickly patient; don't be fooled by his charisma and good looks – he may act like he'll pounce on anything that moves, but Doctor Bonnefoy is an extremely qualified physiatrist with an impeccably clean record. Well – partially clean.

I guess you could call those four the _main _doctors, obviously not out of the entire hospital thanks to their youth, but they are the main doctors for this particular story. Of course, there will be many more popping in and out, nurses and interns alike, but for now, we'll just stick with these three. Before we continue, I feel it best that you should be acquainted with their full names; Doctor Ludwig {I'm sure you should know this by now} is clearly Ludwig Beilschmidt, as his big brother is Gilbert Beilschmidt; then there's Doctor Francis Bonnefoy and finally, Doctor Carriedo would be known as Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo, although most of his patients just call him Doctor F.C to avoid mispronouncing his ridiculously long name.

Now, where to start, where to start..? The logical place to start would be at the beginning, as it's a very good place to start. The beginning it is then…

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**A/N;  
**_Thank you for reading! _

_All types of reviews are very much appreciated {especially critique}, and I want to know whether I should continue this or not.  
Feel free to point out any grammatical or spelling errors – I feel like there are quite a lot hidden in this first chapter – and I'll try to correct them as soon as possible._


	2. Chapter I

**Author's Note;;**

I like to write chapters in advance for this story because I've got a constant, nagging fear that I'm going to get writer's block. Sorry that this is so late – I'm unorganized and lazy.

Updates should be roughly once a week. :3  
Unless I'm a lazy ass

**Disclaimer;;**

I do not own Hetalia nor do I own any of the characters in Hetalia either. In _no way _does this fanfiction actually represent the real countries. It is AU, so everything written here is purely for fiction and nothing else.

Thanks for the reviews, favourites and follows guys; I really appreciate it! ~ _Prussianess, ForestFireSong, ArcherAzzure, TallyTable, Vocabell8aph, floraida, RinnyBunny _and _therandomnessthatiam_

Enjoy

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**Chapter I:**

**Third Person POV**

It was a rather quaint neighbourhood, with little houses lined up in neat rows and col-de-sacs and avenues strewn evenly about the place. Every house had a front garden, each tended to in different ways. Some had bright, blooming flowers, showing off a dazzling array of colours that would be sure to brighten the mood of any stranger who happened to passing by. Others just had tidily clipped grass, rich green and emitting a sweet-smelling fragrance that tickled the nostrils ever so slightly.

This may have been a reason why Ludwig Beilschmidt had taken a shine to the area that he lived in. His house rested exactly half-way down a small, closed off road, probably the quaintest and neatest of all the roads that resided within this neighbourhood. Maybe it was the fact that hardly any cars ever threatened to tear up the tarmac, or perhaps the lack of children screaming in the street, but Ludwig was contented with where he lived. Although his garden was plain, with only a few flowers pushing their petals up into the sunlight, and a low brick wall surrounding it, it was still a rather attractive house. Small, but attractive.

As for his brother, who actually paid for most of the house anyway and lived with him; well, Gilbert didn't care where they lived really. As long as he had a room to himself and a fair amount of food (and beer) to last him the week, he would be fine.

There was no need for their house to be big, really; Ludwig and Gilbert didn't earn a substantial amount of money, so it would've been pointless for them to own a ridiculously large mansion, yet they earned enough to afford such a delicate, old-fashioned little house. In fact, in some ways it was convenient considering they also had to care for three large dogs, but they hardly ever used the upstairs rooms anyway. They say you can tell a lot about a person, or people in this case, from where they live, and this is partially true, in retrospect. Nonetheless, the house was empty {save the three dogs, of course, sleeping soundly in their respective beds.} Both of the Beilschmidts were at work.

"Nervous?"

Ludwig was pulled out his spacey trance by his brother's questioning voice. Up until then, he'd been staring absent-mindedly out of the window, watching nonchalantly as trees and houses scrolled passed, each revealing a new turn and a new pavement to admire. All of these things were perfectly familiar to the young man; he saw them every day on his way to work. But, today wasn't like the rest; today was special. Today, Ludwig – being a junior f1 doctor – would be entering a new course. After six months of practicing basic surgery, such as using anaesthetics, learning different types of injuries to the head, leg, arm etc., he would finally be moving on to the second part of his training. Strangely, out of all the neuroscience options available to him, Ludwig chose psychiatry; many people, including Gilbert, found this rather odd. Why on earth would the tough-looking, sharp-eyed, slightly intimidating youth choose psychiatry? Well, he didn't even know himself. It was just trying out something new, and that's not entirely wrong, right?

"No," the blond muttered, feeling an awkward and uncomfortable feeling knot in his stomach as the car shuddered to a halt. There they were; just outside the hospital. Despite Ludwig usually looking devoid of any expression except seriousness, Gilbert could immediately tell from the anxious gleam in his eyes that he was lying. Smirking as he clambered out of the car, he briefly recalled when he'd been a junior doctor – what was that, five years ago? – wet behind the ears and terrified of the new subject he'd been faced with. But now, Gilbert was a registrar, and he didn't need to worry about petty things like that anymore; he was busy with his own patients and his own problems.

The two walked in silence through the reception, save the elder blabbering about how "awesome" Ludwig would feel once he became a senior f2 doctor, and how he'd be teaching new med students someday in the future.

"Ah –" Gilbert trailed off once he'd pulled on his uniform – a large white lab coat that almost blended in perfectly with his pale skin tone. "I gotta go. There's some chick who's pregnant who I've got to check up on; she's kinda cute, but she's married, so…"

He mumbled something else but Ludwig didn't listen. After all of the worry and anxiety he'd been struggling through at home, the day was finally here. He didn't know whether he was supposed to be terrified or relieved; in fact, in his tense pondering about what lay ahead, he failed to realize that Gilbert had left until he turned around, his mouth open as if he'd been about to say something. Ludwig sighed, clamping his jaws shut and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Now he was alone – it wasn't as though he needed directions to the psychiatric ward; he'd been there a couple of times before when he'd been a med student. Yet, now he was faced with the prospect of actually being fully responsible for the patients there!

_Calm down…_

Exhaling deeply, trying to cleanse his troublesome thoughts, the tall man began shuffling down the corridor; wards and other doctors flashed by in no time at all, yet the journey felt like it would take forever. Ludwig chewed his lower lip as each tentative footstep brought him closer and closer to the ward. He wasn't afraid, just apprehensive. Restless. Uneasy. _What if the doctors don't like me? Heck, what if the patients don't like me? _Not many people took a shine to the blond at first sight. After all, his eyes were sharper and more piercing than a blade and the stern, daunting frown that always seemed to be engraved on his square face was enough to make children burst into tears. _Oh God. What if there are children there?! _He mentally slapped himself; children would be seen to by a paediatrician, not a psychiatrist. He needn't be worried about that. _But still…_

Ludwig slowly came to a halt, the large bold words that hung above the double doors throbbing in his mind; "_Psychiatric_." The hospital – called _St. Busby's _– was rather large, and held quite a few wards inside of it. There were multiple psychiatric wards scattered around the place, usually located in the Eastern building, but this particular ward was for long term mental-health issues. Unlike the others, it had beds and personalized rooms for the patients to dorm in if their conditions ever escalated so much that they needed to be monitored daily. In fact, the long term psychiatric ward was actually one building, connected only by the long, winding hallway that Ludwig had just trekked through.

He leaned forward, pausing only to readjust his uniform slightly, firmly gripping the handle to the door. Hesitation trembled through his body, yet he didn't falter as he yanked it open, revealing the spacious room within. It was merely a mini reception, with soft couches and chairs and gaping archways leading down extensive corridors. The colours of the room didn't mimic those of the rest of the hospital; substituting to bland, minty greens and pastel blues was a soft, lilac hue blending in with the pale, flowery yellow walls and maroon carpets. Ludwig, surprised at the stark contrast, stayed rooted in his spot for a few moments, not knowing what to do. The room was empty, save a shaggy-haired young man seated on one of the plump cushions, twitching every now and then and turning, as if someone was talking to him or saying his name. He didn't acknowledge Ludwig's presence, nor did he stop fidgeting. If it weren't for his slightly erotic behaviour, the young doctor might've thought he was a rather well-off gentleman, what with his ironed white shirt and teal sweater-vest.

Ludwig didn't move; _what do I do now? _Suddenly, echoing footsteps vibrated through the air, and he immediately turned just in time to see someone emerging from one of the many corridors, holding a clipboard and inspecting some sheets of paper. Judging from the white coat and the familiarity of his face, Ludwig assumed that he was another doctor – one that he'd been acquainted with before. He opened his mouth, attempting to make a sound to alert the man of his existence, but it wasn't needed. A pair of large, gleaming eyes fixated themselves on him after leaving the sheet of paper.

"Hm?" the sound of mild revelation resonated strangely in the half-empty room, despite the soft carpets underfoot. "Ludwig? You're early; we weren't expecting you so soon." Even though he seemed faintly astonished, a smirk tugged at his lips and he danced across the room, twirling gracefully between desolate couches. He ended his unnecessary display with a bow and, what looked like a cheeky wink, however Ludwig was probably mistaken. The junior doctor stood tall and straight, a looked of bewilderment swept across his stony face; he was unused to being addressed so informally, even by one of a higher rank than him. Nonetheless, he nodded curtly, supressing a scowl.

"Doctor Bonnefoy," he murmured in greeting. The two had obviously met before, yet he still held out his hand – the flirtatious man accepted it warmly, smiling graciously.

"Oh, come on; there's no need for such formalities," he answered, flicking back a few strands of his shoulder-length hair with his free hand. "Call me Francis. We're all friends here, no?"

"Er…right…Francis…"

Said doctor chuckled, his laugh oddly feminine and sassy as he retracted his hand, somewhat slowly. It seemed, at this point, that the man seated in the chair nearby had finally noticed that the room had two other people in it and thus, he heaved himself onto his feet and joined the awkward conversation.

"Good morning, Francis," he said simply, drawing his attention away from Ludwig almost instantly. Now that he was closer and actually talking, it was easy to distinguish some rather interesting features; for one, his accent was unbearable "posh" as some might call it. Whereas most people in London spoke with the usual fluency of a regular, middle-class intonation, this man's tongue held the obvious tints of the Queen's English, along with the indistinct scent of tea. And, his eyebrows were definitely something to take note of. They were huge – enough said there really, save the fact that they took up over half of his forehead. Although they were very, _very _thick and bushy, they didn't majorly detract from his overall appearance, meaning they didn't make him look ugly or terribly unattractive. Just…peculiar.

"Arthur! It's good to see that you're looking well," Francis answered, a cheerful ring to his voice. "Did you sleep last night?"

"I'm afraid not," the man {presumably called Arthur} answered, his large eyebrows knitted together in frustration. "They were loud last night; louder than they usually are, yet they seem to have calmed down a bit."

_What on earth is he talking about? _Ludwig thought silently, frowning to himself. _Is he a doctor or something? _He could've been a doctor, but he didn't really carry the aura of one around him. Francis sighed and held his head in his hand, exasperated.

"Have you been taking your medication?"

"Of course! It doesn't seem to be working as effectively as it should though."

"That's the strongest type we have…"

Francis stifled an agitated sigh as he spoke, and instead blinked tiredly. Arthur was his patient, so it was obviously his duty to take care of him and try to stabilize his problem, yet it seemed that everything he'd tried had been useless. Not only was it a hard knock to his self-esteem as a registrar, but Arthur's condition had been one of the hardest he'd had to treat in a long time. It seriously didn't help that he lost sleep almost every night – in fact, Francis couldn't recall the last time Arthur had told him he'd slept well.

"If they're quieter now, how about you try and lie down whilst you can?" he suggested, forcing a wry smile. Arthur could only manage a quick nod. His gaze shifted curiously to Ludwig as he dipped his head to the registrar, half-questioning who the newcomer was and what he was doing there.

"Ah, yes," Francis continued, gesturing to the young doctor. "Arthur, this is Ludwig – he's a junior doctor so he'll be staying here for a while and helping to treat the others." His golden hair rippled, resembling honey being slathered over steaming brown toast as he turned his head back to towards the new arrival. "Ludwig, this is Arthur."  
The two looked uncertainly at each other, before the patient outstretched his palm, clearly requesting a handshake. Now this was a more formal and reserved way of greeting, one which Ludwig accepted with a slight dip of his head; Arthur was quite a bit shorter than him, with a fairly small frame. The novice doctor inspected him without scrutiny, putting his observational skills to the test as he tried to guess he was at the hospital in the first place.  
_Anorexia? _The dubious thought was disbanded immediately; Arthur may have looked _slightly_ undersized, but Ludwig could tell by the surprising strength in his hand, the steady grasp that he held during the handshake and pretty much just by looking at him that he conclusively wasn't anorexic or bulimic. _They were talking about "voices" before…_

"It's a pleasure to meet you," the English accent polished the atmosphere, seeming to refine the awkward air between them. Arthur slowly broke his hand away, and with a polite nod to both Ludwig and France, he retired to {presumably} his rooms down one of the corridors. Ludwig could only shrug inwardly; he wouldn't really have been able to guess if there was anything "wrong" with or troubling Arthur at all upon first glance.

"Um…" he muttered after a long, uncomfortable pause. "Where is Doctor F.C?" He knew the carefree doctor from their numerous meetings in the break room, discussing patients and what not and he also recalled him being rather close to Gilbert. To be honest, Ludwig and Antonio weren't really friends – merely acquaintances who knew each other quite well. At least, Ludwig didn't particularly see him as a friend thanks to their lack of communication {apart from when it came to his transfer to the psychiatric ward} and his wayward, distant attitude that was so unlike his own. Nonetheless, he knew that he'd be working with Doctor F.C the most during his time in the mental-illness ward; he'd been assigned to help take care of his patient, after all.

"Antonio?" Francis answered laxly – for the last few minutes, he'd been flicking through his clipboard, scribbling down a few notes in slanted, conjoined handwriting that could've rivalled professional calligraphy. "He said he'd meet you here, no? Don't worry; he's probably just late _as usual_."

Before Ludwig could respond, express any worry or even make a sound, Francis was gone, sauntering down one of the many hallways with a strange flourish to his stride. And Ludwig was alone in the reception room. To be honest, he already knew Francis and Antonio outside of the hospital; whenever his brother, Gilbert, went out on a late-night booze spree one of them would normally be the one to dump him on the doorstep. Surprisingly, they were good friends; an odd trio of the completely unexpected, yet they were close. It unnerved Ludwig slightly – but only slightly – _what kind of things had his loud-mouth brother told them? _What if he'd let slip something confidential and embarrassing about their childhood? What about that time with the bird –

Ludwig was cut off mid-thought when the door behind him swung open, narrowly missing his back. It slid to an easy halt against the carpet, revealing a tanned young man; his messy hair and his bright, audacious grin complimented the idle zeal glazing his eyes, making him look a couple of years younger than he really was. Unlike Ludwig, he didn't wear a white doctor's coat – instead, his attire consisted of a casual green jumper, displaying the creased white shirt underneath, collar sticking up and un-tucked. His sleeves were rolled up just passed his elbows, yet his lower arms were not shown as he appeared to have a jacket of some sort strewn across them, leathery brown in colour. Anyone else would've mistaken him for a patient, but Ludwig knew exactly who he was:

"Doctor F.C," he grunted, half-relieved that he wouldn't be forced to wait in the reception any longer than he wanted to, half-bemused by his choice of clothing. He was supposed to be a doctor, after all. The man responded a little sluggishly, almost like he wasn't quite paying attention his surrounding, before the essence of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh? Hey, Ludwig! Long time, no see, eh?"

There was no reply as Antonio simply threw his coat over one of the spare couches and kicked off his shoes, showing the bland woollen socks hidden within. Not that Ludwig was paying any attention to his feet whatsoever.

"So," he continued, setting down the sack-like bag that had been hanging limply off of his shoulder and unzipping it. "How've you been doing lately?" Without looking up, he managed to fish out a couple of sheets of paper and chuck the now hollow bag on the floor, rather unceremoniously.

"I'm very well, thanks." The answer was strained, nearly forced, and a little too polite to sound nonchalant. However, Antonio didn't seem to notice this one bit as he wandered past Ludwig, intently reading over a couple of the documents whilst nodding thoughtfully. He didn't say anything else until he halted by the entrance to a hallway and glanced back over his shoulder.

"What are you waiting for? Come on; Feli's been eager to meet you."

Ludwig blinked, bewildered. _What? _He didn't quite know what to expect upon Antonio's arrival, but he felt like things were moving a little too fast. _Feli? Who's Feli? _He bit his tongue, not wanting to say the question out-loud as it would probably sound unbearably stupid. All Ludwig knew about the patient whom he'd be helping to care for was that his name was Feliciano Vargas and…that was it. He hadn't been given any information on his disorder or illness, and he certainly didn't know who the heck "Feli" was. Antonio – not being one of the sharpest knives in the drawer – hardly noticed Ludwig's concern or the tentative reluctance in his step as he shuffled after him and he simply continued down the hallway, humming softly to himself.

"So, uh…" the younger, less experienced doctor murmured as he followed apprehensively, unsure of what to say. "About Feliciano…?" The tweak in his voice at the end implied that he had a question, but Antonio _once again _failed to take any heed.

"Yup; Feli's been pretty excited ever since I told him he'd get a visitor. He always likes making new friends. You might want to be careful with Lovi though – he's a little shy and doesn't take well to new people."

He said these two statements with the ease of long experience, as if Ludwig already knew everything – unfortunately, the poor man was completely and utterly lost. He had already deduced that "Feli" must've been some sort of nickname for Feliciano, yet he had absolutely no idea who – or _what _– the hell "Lovi" was. Nonetheless, he decided to be a bit blunter with his question, beginning to understand that Antonio was more that 'a little' thick-headed at this point.

"Yeah…I'll take note of that. Er, what's "wrong" with Mr Vargas?"

"Eh? Um…well, he finds it hard to sleep at night if that's what you mean. He gets scared –"

"No. I mean, what's his condition?"

Perhaps Antonio didn't hear the last part properly, or maybe he didn't hear it at all, as he just stopped abruptly outside a door, almost causing the rather confused Ludwig to walk into him. Beaming, he rapped on the wood with his knuckles a couple of times, causing the sound to echo throughout the whole corridor ominously.

"Hey! Feli; you've got a visitor!" he called loudly, stepping back to wait for the door to open whilst turning to face Ludwig again. "What did you say again?"

"_What's his condition?" _he exhaled deeply, trying hard not to grit his teeth or let the growl he was keeping locked in his throat slip out. Trust me, when Ludwig wants to sound threatening, he can sound bloody threatening. As they stood in the hallway, two lonely figures, the fragments of resounding footsteps started to blend together on the other side of the door; a sign that somebody was coming to open it.

"You don't know? I thought I told you," Antonio answered, thumbing through his notes easily. "He's got split-personality disorder."

The footsteps only got louder.

"It recently got really bad which is why he's staying here in the hospital."

They stopped as a deeply clunking sound started to vibrate the whole door; it wobbled and shook, evidence that someone on the other side was trying to open it in some way.

"Sometimes he's Feliciano. Other times he's Lovino. It can change in a second –" Antonio snapped his fingers, accenting his point. "- just like that!"

Ludwig, although he was listening in silent fascination to the older, more experienced doctor, had his eyes glued to the door, watching with a bizarre sense of icy fear trickling down his spine as it creaked open, revealing a pair of groggy, honey-coloured eyes. They flickered between the two, betraying not an inch of emotion apart from exasperated tiredness as the door open a couple of inches more, showing the being in his full "glory." Dressed in nothing but a thin, white vest that clung timidly to his shoulders and chest and some boxers, riddled with bright pink hearts, the man slouched rubbing his face drowsily.

"Good morning!" Antonio chirped.

"Shut up, bastard."

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**Thank you for reading! ~**

**Damn, I'm sorry that this took so long to update. I was busy – busier than I thought I'd be. I apologize for any spelling/grammar/punctuation errors, but I didn't have time to check this thoroughly. If you spot anything, please message me or include it in a review.**

**Half of me is happy that I got off of my ass and wrote this chapter, yet half of me is mad because I don't think it's very good. Nonetheless, I've decided to continue with this, although I might stop if I don't get enough feedback. I really do appreciate feedback and it inspires me to write more, so, even if it's just to point out my errors, feel free to leave a review.**

**Thanks! **

**~~NekoMushi~~**


	3. Chapter II

**A/N;**

_Hooray for half-term! Well, I got myself a fairly good report which I'm proud about. Hopefully, this chapter won't put my nice marks to shame ;)_

_Wow, I'm really pleased with the feedback so far. I didn't expect so many people to favourite this story, and once again, I really appreciate the reviews! If I do end up merging the chapters, this and chapter three will all be added into chapter one. _

_**Edit;**_

_Gahh, why am I never satisfied with my own work!? Well, I tweaked a couple {a lot} of things in this chapter… Basically, it slightly bothered me that Ireland and Northern Ireland were twins, because technically they're not, right? Sooo…North has been made the youngest and he usually bunks in England or Scotland's room. Also, to help myself develop the plot a little, Ireland is the older (which is actually correct but I'm not going to go too much into the history of the British Isles considering I hardly know anything about them…)  
Sorry for the random tweaking and such – I'm fairly indecisive and I like to criticize my own opinions. A lot. Heheh… _

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Chapter II**

Spring – the breath of fresh, crisp air after a painfully long era of being trapped within your home, shivering and clutching various woollen materials for warmth as the snow creates a scene of splendid elegance outside your kitchen window. It was a time for joy and general happiness; a time when you could walk down the street, basking in the sun's life-giving glow whilst feeling a playful breeze dance up your arms and tug at your shirt. Spring always has been a much loved season.

This is most true for the lodgers at the '_Union Jack_' pub – a cosy, festive bar well-known for its fabulous evening entertainment and vast array of foreign alcohol {mainly beers.} Although it was closed, the remnants of last night still unwashed from the faces of its sleeping owners, there was a faint smell of liquor in the taproom complimented by a finer, more sophisticated scent of perfectly aged wine. Empty tables creaked bitterly under the weight of upturned chairs and stools, in need of polishing, whilst the several bottles of booze sloshed uncertainly behind the counter.  
These people loved spring; along with the bountiful colours that seemed to burst open like ripened fruit amongst the dreary, grey city it brought new customers, thirsting for such booze so they could stumble out into the warm nights without freezing their toes off.

The living area, stationed upstairs, was neither terrible nor grand. Fitted with four bedrooms, enough to accommodate the youths who dwelled within, two bathrooms and a kitchen-living area, it was a rather comfortable and humble abode. There was no need for luxuries such as bookshelves or computers, or even a television; the brothers who lived in this flat-above-the-workplace occupied themselves and entertained each other with interesting music and half-drunken jokes. The music, of course, was made by a small collection of instruments piled on top of each other outside the door that opened upon the thin, wooden staircase; a hand-harp, compacted into a flimsy black bag, worn and dusty from years of use; a leathery square box holding a set of bagpipes {or rather, uillean pipes (*), as their owner prefers to call them}; and a classic violin-shaped case nestled deep in the corner, obviously hiding a string instrument inside.

However dormant and exhausted the atmosphere in the house seemed, there was indeed one being stirring in the waking hours of the morning. In the third room, surprisingly messy {yet neater than the other rooms in the flat}, a young man – probably no more than twenty six years – shifted on his mattress, debating whether he should bother to get up or not. The easiest option would've been for him to just pull the duvets high up over his head and snuggle back down under the inviting covers. However, that couldn't be so for him. Without a word or a murmur, he rolled onto his side and sat up slowly, a groggy mist clouding his gaze. Despite the radiance of the sunrise fluttering through his blinds and the thick blankets swathing his lower body and legs, there was still an eerie chill in the room from the lack of central heating. Nonetheless, the man didn't seem to notice as he swung his feet over the side of the bed and started with his usual routine; after all, he'd lived in this flat for almost ten years and he'd grown accustomed to the draft whistling through the floorboards and the slight damp in the right-hand corner of the lounge.

Dylan was this man's name. Simple enough. Eventually, after an insipid breakfast of oat cereal and a hurried dash of coffee, he was on his way, pausing only to signal his departure with the usual "I'm off!" to the three sleeping brothers left behind. The eldest {Cillian}, still half-drunk from the night before didn't even bat an eyelid - as usual - as he grumbled irritably, waiting for the first signs of a hangover to come.  
Even though there were four bedrooms and four brothers lodging in the flat at present, two brothers {usually} shared a bedroom. The youngest of the quintet, the slightly underdeveloped Connor what with his unnaturally pale complexion {complimented by the scattering of wayward freckles across his cheeks and nose} and small, budding muscle tone, normally slept in the same room as the second-to-eldest brother, Allistor. Or he nicked the empty bedroom. Or he just crashed on the couch. Allistor, despite his brusque, buff appearance didn't mind; he knew of the tension between the eldest and the youngest more than any other member of the family yet no words could be said on his part to ease said troubles. He felt that the only thing he could do was help young Connor to feel just a little more welcome in the apartment, even if that meant he often had to share his sleeping space with him.

As for the empty bedroom…

It was not a spare bedroom, no. It belonged to the second youngest of the _five _brothers; Arthur, who was currently at _St Busby's _hospital after having a nervous breakdown thanks to his schizophrenia. And that was precisely where Dylan would be headed after he'd finished delivering the mail. The pub where they lived was set in a convenient little area; just down the road from post office, a couple of blocks from the hospital and within distance of some supermarkets and shopping streets. The throng of brothers {well, half-brothers} hardly ever needed to travel far to get what they desired, unless they were dead-bent on a night in town, in which case they'd have to catch the train. Once again, the train station was within range if they ever wanted to do that.

Dylan, after popping into the post office to collect the batch of letters, delivered them up and down the roads with ease – he'd been doing that job for a long, long time, so he hardly had to look at what he was doing. Heading to the hospital, still clad in his postman uniform, the effects of his coffee finally started to kick in, his brain started to unclog itself, as if tiny metal cogs were clicking and turning until he was actually thinking about the day ahead. He wondered what the state of his little brother would be – he at least hoped that he would be better off than the day he'd been admitted. His schizophrenia had started ages and ages ago, way back when they were young kids – only then, nobody took it seriously because they just thought Arthur was expressing his weirdly fantastic dreams and his vivid imagination.

But no; those fascinating, wondrous dreams filled with brightly coloured animals and various voices, sometimes all talking at the same time, turned unbearably sour in his mind. The warm, tender smiles melted away into darkness and morphed into grotesque monsters that would torture his thoughts by day and poison his dreams by night. The joyous laughter was drowned out by callous screams and sickly voices, whispering bittersweet taunts and moaning - _always _moaning. Arthur didn't understand what silence was, for he had never heard it. Not a moment in his life went by when someone – or some_thing _– wasn't plaguing his thoughts by murmuring sweet nothings in his head. Never had there been a moment of blissful silence, when there was nothing but emptiness as far as the ear could hear. _They were always talking_. _Crying_. _Shrieking_.

"Arthur Kirkland," Dylan muttered, taking a moment to remove his tightly fitted cap and run his fingers through his dense, brown hair. The light often played tricks on its tone – in the summer morns when beams arced down onto his pillow, it held a soft strawberry blond hue, yet when he was shrouded in the dark confines of the cellar whilst rolling a barrel of apple cider up into the taproom, it was a rich, murky brunette shade, almost black. At present, it was simply mousy brown, blending in with his thickened eyebrows and flattering the few freckles that blemished his fair skin. 

The receptionist blinked as she looked up at the new arrival briefly. Dylan was a frequent visitor – he tried to pop in at least once a day to check on Arthur – so, recognising his face, she just gestured in the psychiatric ward's general direction, the edges of her lips tugged up in a smile. The drowsy man nodded, returning the smile half-heartedly, and followed the point of her finger. It was a bit of a pain for him, going to see Arthur on a daily basis, but his older brothers rarely found the time in their own "busy" schedules to do it. That and they almost always had an excruciating hangover; truth be told, Dylan's head was a little hazy from last night but he never really let it bother him. Most of the time, Connor would join him, but after the events of last night Dylan doubted that he'd be awake before supper. Following the usual, well known passages that had etched themselves in his mind, he eventually came to the end of the familiar winding corridor and pried open the double doors.

The warm colours of the reception greeted him, but Dylan just wandered past, choosing a corridor on the far right and continuing his "journey." As he walked, each step taking him closer and closer to his tormented little brother, the sound of footsteps resonating off the walls reached his ears. Around the next corner, a tall man came into view, walking around ten metres ahead of Dylan and probably going in the same direction.

"Francis."

The figure turned at the sound of his name, a flurry of abundant yellow hair whipping over his shoulder. For a second, he looked surprised, but his face soon contorted into a pert grin.

"Oho, hello Dylan," he answered, waiting for the younger man to catch up and match his pace. He only received a grunt in reply. "Checking up on Artie, are we? How sweet!"

"It's just to make sure he's not freaking out again."

The response was a little hasty and laced with something weaker than anger, as if Dylan was too tired to argue with the registrar. Unlike Arthur, he didn't fall so easily for the doctor's taunts and instead tried to ignore them even though it irked him. Greatly. They never talked much anyway, so what was the point in getting ticked off? Despite their clashing personalities – Francis as the over-ostentatious prick with a dry, sexual comment on everything, and Dylan being the awkward, stubborn recluse who wanted nothing more than to go home and practice some music – they both managed to reach Arthur's room without hurling insults at each other. This was partly because of the faint throbbing in Dylan's head and how he really wasn't in the mood for shouting murder at someone _just _yet. However, this would've been a different story entirely if he were drunk.

"He couldn't sleep last night, despite the medication," Francis informed the brother as he pushed the door open gently. "So I sent him here to see if he could get any rest."

Dylan just nodded, stepping into the small, dimly lit room. Simplistic, tidy and cosy, much like every other room in the specialized psychiatric ward. Probably the only differences were that the bed was freshly made {obviously done by Arthur himself}, there was a shoulder bag on the floor and there was also someone seated on the edge of the bed. Their reaction to the sudden company in their room was slow and somewhat dazed. Green eyes moved sluggishly to stare at the two men who had just entered, listless and rimmed with shadows, evidence enough the night had been cruel to him. He looked young – _very _young – in fact, he might've been a teenager with his fair, smooth skin and unkempt hair, yet there was something too graceful or too haggard about his posture; he bent his body over cross legs, supporting his chin delicately in the palm of his hand as his back curved in such a way that was too awkward to be supple.

"Hey Artie," Francis greeted, grinning. "You have a visitor."

Arthur looked lethargically at his older brother, the exhaustion on his face shocking Dylan slightly. This was possibly the worst he'd seen the schizophrenic in a long time, apart from when he'd been crying in the middle of the kitchen the day he'd been admitted. His youthful features were fatigued and his cheeks were gaunt and pale. Even Francis who'd seen him earlier was astonished at the drastic change in his complexion. In the few moments that Arthur was dazed that he hadn't quite come to realize that he had guests, he held the form of an unripe young boy and the look of a corrupted old man; fifty years joined with fifteen; one of those beings who are both feeble and horrible at once, and who make those shudder whom they do not make weep. However, this ghostly aura was dispelled virtually instantly as he recomposed himself, sitting up straight and rigid whilst hurriedly rubbing his face roughly.

"Sorry, Francis, what?" Arthur murmured, frowning as he brought his petite hands away from his face.

"Eh –"

"Woah; you look terrible," Dylan interrupted strolling passed the doctor whilst discreetly biting the inside of his cheek. His little brother could be a pain sometimes, but that didn't mean he wasn't concerned about him or he didn't love him. There was a time, long ago when they'd been young kids, when Arthur used to complain about having nightmares and would crawl up beside Dylan, weeping softly. Usually in those situations, he'd have sung him a lullaby or told him a bedtime story – either that or one of the others would've sorted him out. Then again, Cillian still held some resentment for their brother; although they'd never admit it, they blamed Arthur for the death of their mother. Allistor occasionally took after the gruff ginger, often ignoring or shunning the schizophrenic harshly. Connor, however was a lot more comforting and sympathetic, being young and scared by Arthur condition; Dylan often wondered sadly if he, Connor, Francis and the two older brothers were all Arthur had left in the world. It was a depressing fact, but as a child he'd always been so consumed in his own, private world that he'd always found it difficult to socialize. His condition seriously hadn't helped matters.

"Oh, good morning Dylan," Arthur shifted slightly as his brother sat down heavily next to him on the bed. "I_ feel_ terrible."

"You need to sleep."

"I can't."

Dylan huffed, irritated. Arthur could be unnecessarily stubborn sometimes which really didn't help to strengthen their relationship. They'd already grown further and further apart as they'd grown older thanks to countless arguments over stupid subjects and the influence of bitter alcohol, but after living rough for so long, wouldn't anyone relish the sweet taste of liquor honey on their tongue? Their lives were so difficult to comprehend that some things were best left forgotten or masked by cider and whiskey. The two "enjoyed" each other's company that morning – and no, that is not a sexual reference; they're brothers for heaven's sake – meaning that they bickered lightly and shared news as Francis hovered by, jotting down some notes about Arthur's behaviour. He was very observant, and took note of every time that the schizophrenic looked up or gestured towards something unseen or made a seemingly random remark or comment that had nothing to do with the conversation. He scowled as Arthur muttered "quiet, I'm talking" for the sixth time mid-sentence and reached his arm out towards something on his left, only to have his hand close around thin air.

Eventually, Dylan had to leave. He'd stayed much longer than he'd originally intended to and hurriedly said his farewells before departing, leaving his little brother with nothing but an awkward handshake that may-or-may-not have become a brief, brotherly hug had it not ended so soon. The postman pulled on his hat, still wearing his blue-grey uniform and headed out through the double doors of the reception without looking back. As usual.

There were many good things about Arthur now being in the care of _St Busby's _rather than having to stay at home all day. Normally, he'd have visited Francis at least once a day, but whilst he was under the psychiatrist's watchful eye nearly 24/7, there were a lot of interesting and foreboding things that were being scrawled down on paper. There were quite few things that Francis had deduced from Arthur's behaviour recently – this was one of his best days so far, despite the ancient look from his exhausted features and his frequent hallucinations – one was that his condition was gradually deteriorating. And another was that Arthur's schizophrenia was actually much worse than he'd originally feared.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**A/N; **_Thank you very much for reading!_

_Phew…well, there was Wales, which is where I live. I'll try not to favourite him too much out of the UK bros, but he is my country after all. That last line pretty much implies that a lot of terrible things happen in the hospital concerning Arthur that we don't know about, so watch out for that!_

_I'll definitely be doing some flashbacks on these guys as well to give you an insight on their tormenting past and I'll introduce you guys properly to Allistor, Niall and Connor. It was a real pain finding Irish names that weren't really common like Sean and Seamus, so I hope those two work out alright. Just so that you don't get confused, Allistor would represent Scotland, Niall would represent the Republic of Ireland and Connor would represent Northern Ireland. _

_By the way, I did change a couple of things here, and I've kinda confirmed that Niall is the eldest. It makes sense, in my opinion, since Ireland would be the eldest and also it helps me with my plotting in the future. I don't quite know why I made him and Connor twins in the first place, but I've made sure to correct it. Basically, in terms of ages;  
Cillian is thirty years old.  
Allistor is twenty nine years old.  
Dylan is twenty six years old.  
Arthur is twenty three years old.  
Connor is nineteen._

_I'd really like to work on the relationship between the UK bros, whilst trying to keep it historically accurate. Anyway, don't think that his brothers really, really hate England or anything. If I'm going to keep it legitimate, then Connor and Niall would have to have a super bad relationship (the whole Protestant-Catholic thing) and Niall probably wouldn't give much of a damn about Arthur. I'll definitely try to bring in some elements about that, but I don't want to story to end up encircling them, or demonizing Niall. After all, the hospital should be about everyone, right? _

_Enough lectures about British history…(heck, I'm pretty clueless about half of it)_

_(*) Uillean pipes are Irish bagpipes, much different to those from Scotland. Instead of blowing into the bellows, they fit snuggly under you elbow where you press down on them to release air. I remember when I went to Ireland a while ago we went into a pub and I saw a young man playing the uillean pipes and a woman playing the fiddle. They actually made a rather nice sound together :)_

_The next chapter will feature Prussia, Hungary and Austria – just to give you guys a heads up. Please review! I love reviews so much; they make me really, really, really happy and I'd seriously appreciate it, especially if you give me tips on how to improve my writing style or point out any errors._

_I'll be updating this once a week, either on Monday or Tuesday from now on. Or at least I'll try. :3 _


	4. Chapter III

**A/N;**

_Wow, this is late. I apologise – I didn't expect for this to come out so late…ya' know, there's always those horrible moments when life catches up to you and then procrastination sets in. I don't like this chapter, and I found it quite difficult to write. I hope it's alright._

_Meh…I've decided not to merge the chapters because it will just end up being too much work. Besides, I don't want this story to be to jumpy or hard to follow since we're switching the point-of-view so often. This chapter will focus mainly around Prussia, Austria and Hungary and I'll definitely go back to Ludwig next chapter. I want to focus on making this longer and more detailed though, so more stuff happens. After all, last chapter all that happened was Wales showed, spoke to England and left…I don't even know how something like that managed to reach 3000 words in the first place. _

_Anyway, thank you, thank you, thank you to all my lovely reviewers (including that kind anon)! Damn, I feel so special…(even though I shouldn't xD) And thank you to the people who added this story to their alert list and others who favourited it too. Seriously, you guys are awesome! Just like Prussia.  
Also, I made a few changes to the last chapter because it kinda bugged me how I made Northern Ireland and Ireland twins…so, North is the youngest…right? Dayum, I should know more about my history. I'm terrible at it in school and I always get super low marks. Oh, and I've changed Ireland's name to Cillian since I don't particularly like the name Niall.  
Cillian is pronounced as Keel-ee-an. _

_Hope you enjoy!_

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**Chapter III**

The maternity ward wasn't always the stereotypical place that everyone thought it was – most people thought of babies lying in their mother's arms, being rocked gently back and forth to a sweet lullaby or women clutching the hands of their husbands as they gently patted large bumps on their stomachs and reminisced about the fact that they were going to have a child. Strangely enough, the maternity ward at _St Busby's _was almost always quiet; it was a holiday getaway for stressed doctors who'd dealt with too much crap and just wanted a place to sit down and think. That is, when someone wasn't shrieking in agony as they gave birth, screaming bloody murder to the ceiling and cursing the world "colourfully" for all it was worth.

Now, Gilbert was no expert on pregnancies. He might've been a registrar, but he had never really enjoyed the thought of taking care of women and their children whether it be during pregnancy or during labour. He wasn't a squeamish man, oh no {after all, before he'd been relocated, he'd been most active in the Critical Care ward or A it was more like he wasn't quite used to such loving affection towards the grotesque bulges in a woman's abdomen. Then again, Gilbert didn't _hate _children…you see, he's never really had an experience with them, being single and all. Sure, he'd had plenty of girlfriends in the past but none of them could quite put up with his boisterous attitude and his overuse of the word "awesome."

Said doctor was walking down through the ward, flipping through his notes on that woman he was taking care of. Half of his mind was busy reading through the details of her pregnancy, whilst the other half mused thoughtfully about how his little brother was getting on. Ludwig was young and still wet behind the ears, so it wouldn't come as a surprise if he complained all of the way home, especially as he was now in the care of Francis and Antonio. Gilbert had made sure to drop by before his brother had been acquainted with them, letting slip a couple of the junior doctor's "traits" and some things that might irritate him. Gilbert always took a sort of sadistic pleasure in seeing Ludwig get annoyed and he started to hum tunefully to himself as he read. He paused momentarily as his eyes passed over the name of his next patient.

_Elizaveta Edelstein, huh? _Gilbert scratched the back of his neck, listening to the odd silence that echoed in the maternity ward as he scrutinized the name on the notes he'd been handed yesterday just before he'd left. It was uncanny how familiar the name sounded on his tongue, yet he seriously couldn't pinpoint the face or where he'd heard it before. Especially that last name. _Edelstein…Edelstein…gaah, where have I heard that before? _He mumbled it darkly under his breath, hoping that something in his brain would click…alas, it was fruitless. Perhaps it was just the echoes of a dream he had long ago, or a half-forgotten memory, its remnants still fermenting in the profound cavern of his mind. Nonetheless, Gilbert kept walking in what he imagined was the right direction, his thoughts straying towards what his younger brother might be doing. Lost within his brief daydream, he failed to notice the man standing in front of him before he'd literally bowled into him.

"Hey! Watch where you're going!" an annoyingly, master-like voice complained haughtily, catching Gilbert off guard. Had he not known better, he probably would've snapped back in reply, but he simply side-stepped nimbly, flashing the bystander with an annoyed glare. However, something about the fuming man, complete with a ridiculously fancy hairstyle and skin complexion that was too flawlessly smooth {save the large mole by his chin} to be natural, made Gilbert stop altogether and lean in closer inspecting him curiously. The colour of his eyes…the way he turned up his nose and shrunk away…those glasses…why were they so damn familiar?

"What are you doing?" the man stated angrily, stepping backwards as Gilbert advanced on him. It was evident that he had recognized something about the doctor too, but he was more focused on how much of his personal space was being invaded.

"R…Roderich?" Gilbert blurted out, a malicious smirk spreading across his maw as his verified cousin flinched, clearly startled by the mention of his name. Sure enough, the well-dressed gentleman stood in front of the registrar was indeed Roderich Edelstein, his first cousin whom he hadn't heard from in years after a family reunion went terribly awry. From the faint memory of a woman in white dress, the albino guessed that it might've been a wedding of some sort.

"G-G-Gilbert!?" he answered, dumbfounded as a flurry of harsh childhood memories flashed in his vision, reminders of how cruel said doctor had treated him when they'd been younger. He'd been a prime target for unpleasant pranks and jokes, mainly pointing out his "girly" or "prissy" attitude and his reluctance to join in sports and games such as rugby and bulldog takedown for fear of breaking his fingernails. "What are youdoing here!?"

"What do think? I work here, genius." The sly smile refusing to leave his face, Gilbert expertly flashed open his long, white coat revealing his hospital ID complete with his full name, face and title. Roderich's eyes widened and, if only for a few short-lived seconds, he looked absolutely stupefied. Anyone would've thought that he'd just laid eyes on a ghost. Nonetheless, he somehow managed to compose himself and turned his cheek, a low "hmph!" sounds escaping from his firmly closed lips. Gilbert, amused, attempted to dig around more into why he'd run into his cousin in such an odd place and perhaps even rile him up more. "In fact, I might wonder what _you're _going here, hm?"

Roderich sighed and crossed his arms, still adamant not to meet Gilbert's half-curious, half-cunning gaze. "My wife is sick."

Ah, yes. He remembered now; that awful family reunion all of those years ago had been _Roderich's _wedding…oh…what was the name of his bride again? Gilbert rootled around in his mind, vaguely remembering the brilliant green eyes of an attractive young woman with long, fair hair and practically flawless skin. For some reason, there was nagging thought in the back of his head nipping at his brain…it felt like he was missing important, like the last piece of a puzzle. His eyes drifted slowly down to his notes, reviewing the name of his next patient. The motion was so absent-minded, yet he stared harder and harder at the scrawl of writing. _Elizaveta…Edelstein…_

…

"Oh!" Gilbert exclaimed loudly. Roderich sniffed disdainfully at his outburst.

"What?"

"Your wife…her name was…Elizaveta, right?"

"You remembered?"

_Oh sweet, sweet victory. _Without meaning to, Gilbert's mouth stretched into a strangely foreboding grin and he locked his unfortunate and slightly disturbed cousin with a mischievous glare. Eyes twinkling impishly, the doctor took half a step backwards so that he wasn't so close to the now perturbed Roderich, and he shrugged trying to hide his roguish laughter.

"How could I forget?" he answered, feigning ignorant hurt at the implied question. "Anyway, why aren't you with her now? Wouldn't that be better than standing in the middle of the corridor and getting in people's way?"

"I'm waiting for her doctor to arrive," Roderich retorted.

"Well, I'm standing right here."

"No, _her _doctor." Roderich was beginning to get impatient; he really didn't want to be in the same room as Gilbert any longer than necessary. "She was assigned a specialist yesterday, but they didn't give me his name and I haven't met him yet."

"Exactly."

When Roderich's face contorted into an expression of mild, shrewd curiosity and irritation, Gilbert allowed his smile to stretch wider. He could've sworn that the edges of his lips were now touching his ears.

"Look at my paperwork," he continued, waving the loose sheets in front of his cousin's face, almost as if to challenge or taunt him. Roderich, at first, didn't comply and understand brushed his flailing arm out of the way, his gaze serious and displeased – however, his eyes strayed towards the paper and coincidentally locked onto the name _Elizaveta Edelstein _straight away. He was able to decipher his wife's name instantly despite the messy handwriting and he quickly reached out to snatch the page. Gilbert made no attempt to get it back.

Each word was nightmarish and callous, Roderich's eyes skimming all of the way down until he found himself staring at Gilbert's very own unruly signature at the very bottom of the sheet. Gaze dangerously obscure, the tall, well-dressed man turned to the doctor; everything on the notes had added up, almost exactly what the GP had told Elizaveta two days ago when she'd been rushed into the hospital to be monitored.

"Why is your name on this?" Roderich questioned, underlining Gilbert's signature with the tip of his fingernail. He prayed, now more than anything in the whole world, that this was just a hoax and it wouldn't turn out to what he thought it would be. It seemed that they went unheard from the way his cousin started to snicker evilly. _No…no, no, no, no, no…no way…_

"Kesesesese, you should see the look on your face!" Gilbert exclaimed, his outrageous laughter booming in unfortunate Roderich's ears, over and over and over again. From the way the rowdy albino giggled and cackled it was no wonder that he'd never managed to hold down a proper girlfriend for less than a month. Roderich wasn't smiling – he was far from it. In fact, he felt like breaking down in tears, but his pride and vanity held him in check; there was no way that he was going to let this failure of a doctor take care of his wife. _Ever_.

"There…th-there must be a mistake!" he complained, his expression suddenly accusing. "You…_you_ did this!"

Gilbert held up his hands in truthful innocence, still masking a sneer. "What? I haven't done anything!"

"This can't be happening!" Roderich mumbled dubiously, hardly bothering to resist as Gilbert yanked the documents back from his hands, cackling venomously.

"Now, now – I'm sure your wife will be just fine!" he soothed impertinently as he leaned in closer again, his eyes gleaming with a strange, inhuman light. When he'd been a young boy, Gilbert had often been picked on for his odd appearance – how wouldn't? As an albino, what with his extraordinarily coloured eyes and hair and the soft whitish texture of his skin he'd never really been adapted to survive the cold scrutiny of society. Nonetheless, he'd pulled through on his own but that didn't mean that his defiant prankster attitude had completely left him – naturally, he'd been a rebel in school being such an outcast and had tried to make himself more well known as something else by being cheeky, insubordinate and disobedient. In a way, it was sad that he'd resorted to something so petty but it couldn't be helped. The past was the past and there was no changing it.

Roderich allowed a low growl to escape from his mouth as Gilbert danced passed him, sniggering outrageously again.

"Come on then," the doctor turned back to face him, eyebrows raised. "Show us where your wife is!"

For a few tense moments, he considered refusing and marching down to the reception to post a complaint. But, that would mean Elizaveta would have to wait another few days for them to find a specialist that could deal with her condition _and _there was no proof or evidence that Gilbert had done something terribly wrong {_yet_.} It would be utterly pointless, and there was no way that Roderich was going to put his wife in further danger like that – she was already waiting for some confirmation so it would be completely unfair for that to be delayed. Heaving a heavy sigh, he glanced impassively at his cousin and signalled for him to follow.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

Gilbert had been fairly surprised at his cousin's willingness to comply, but not to the point where he'd let up on his various torments and sly comments. He'd continued to hound Roderich all of the way to Elizaveta's rooms – truth be told, the albino doctor was curious to see his newest patient. He couldn't quite remember what she'd looked like at their wedding, probably due to the fact that he'd spent most of his time wreaking havoc back then anyway. He remembered the blissful memories of dresses stained due to "accidental" wine spills, the glorious cake lying in segments on the floor and the bouquet being reduced to a collection of brown, drooping flowers, soggy with tainted water that smelled faintly of bleach. _Good times, good times_.

"Elizaveta," Roderich murmured, tapping the door with his knuckles softly. A half-loud, half-tired sound from inside seemed to signal that he could open the door fully and thus he stepped inside, immediately rushing to the side of his wife. Gilbert hadn't quite thought of what he'd be faced with when he entered her room, closed off from the others for privacy, average, white-washed and with a closed window against the wall with the blinds thrown wide open. He took a moment to familiarize himself with his surroundings before looking at Elizaveta herself, sitting up in her bed.

She didn't look too terrible but she didn't look particularly well either. Pale…paler than she probably should have been and gaunt – she was quite thin yet not so much that she was "ghostly." Despite the faint flush to her cheeks and the zealous blaze in her eyes, it was fairly clear that she was sickly. Gilbert, momentarily backtracked by the bump in her stomach that showed through her gown obviously showing that she was indeed pregnant, averted his gaze as Roderich and Elizaveta started to talk to each other in hushed tones and reviewed her notes for the umpteenth time.

_Elizaveta Edelstein…_

…_placenta previa…_

…_complete…_

…_30 weeks…_

…_very heavy bleeding…_

Gilbert paused – he read over said notes again, looking intently at the clarifications beneath the words. He really didn't have any idea what the heck placenta previa was, which led him to wonder how the heck he'd been placed here in this ward. But…_heavy bleeding_? What was that supposed to mean? He frowned, realizing it didn't say _where _the bleeding was coming from. No matter how many times he checked, he couldn't see anything that would've implied or suggested where the bleeding was coming from. _Wait…she's pregnant so…_  
Gilbert grimaced and blanched {if that was even possible considering how pale he already was.} _Oh God, that's gross…_

"Gilbert…Beilschmidt?"

The gentle hum of a woman's voice calling his name quickly wrenched him from his sickened stupor and he looked uncertainly at Elizaveta. _Very…heavy…bleeding…_ He shuddered visibly.

"Yeah, he does look familiar," she muttered, seemingly speaking to herself and Roderich. "You did mention that your cousins were called Beilschmidt." After a moment of tense silence, of which she eyed the doctor curiously, she spoke again. "Hm?…weren't you the guy who ruined our wedding cake?"

"Uhm…" Gilbert stuttered, shifting his feet awkwardly. True, it had indeed been him and he'd also been the one to start the massive food fight as well. "…maybe…?" He was a little hesitant to answer the question now that he was faced with two pairs of inquisitive-angry eyes. Normally, he would've laughed and exclaimed how "awesome" that had been, but this didn't seem to be the time or place…not to mention, his mind was still reeling from the whole _heavy bleeding_. Gilbert certainly wasn't squeamish but the thought of blood in _that _particular area unsettled him. He wasn't really cut out for being on the maternity ward – perhaps that was why he'd been switched so suddenly though? So that he could get used to any situation? Even pregnancy?

"…so, you're the specialist doctor who's going to be looking after me then?" Elizaveta continued, shifting her position so that she was more comfortable in the bed. Gilbert paused, his mind processing the word _specialist_. He was slowly slipping out of his train of thoughts as he stared levelly at the pregnant woman. He was no specialist in pregnancy and he frowned, suddenly feeling a little unsure of himself.

"Yeah," he answered sharply, halting his runaway tongue before continuing. "I _specialize _in Critical Care and A&E mostly, considering how awesome I am."

"C-C-Critical?" Roderich, who'd been quiet for the last few moments, piped up looking down at his wife nervously. If she'd been assigned a doctor who was from Critical Care, did that mean her condition was really bad? He was aware that she'd lost a lot of blood in the last week or two, but was this pregnancy really going to be that bad? As if by instinct, his hand came to rest over hers – she blinked softly and returned his gesture by squeezing weakly.

"I'll be fine Roderich," Elizaveta chided quietly as Gilbert looked blankly at the two of them. He was at a loss of what to say, so he just pulled up a chair and got to work; questioning her about the last couple of weeks and how she'd been feeling. It was the usual procedure that he went through with other patients, although it seemed like her GP had already found out most of the details. She just repeated what was on the documents anyway as Gilbert nodded uncertainly, trying to at least look like he knew what she was talking about.

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

Salvation finally came when Elizaveta stopped talking, satisfied with what she'd belayed to the confused doctor and Gilbert decided to take his leave. He wasted no time in getting up and rushing from the room, fumbling with the close door. _What the heck was she talking about!? I didn't understand any of that at all…_ In his haste to leave, the albino must've swung open the door too sharply, for he heard a muffled squawk of pain followed by a loud thump. The source had been a male nurse, presumably reaching to open the very door that had just smacked him in the face, now on the floor groaning and clutching his forehead.

Gilbert stared at him for a while, a bit taken aback – the man seemed younger than him and was wearing the blue scrubs which obviously gave away his occupation in the hospital hierarchy and, one he'd recovered from his fall, he began to glare up at the doctor with magnificent red eyes. After sweeping a few locks of hair out of his face, he slowly got to his feet, still fixing Gilbert with a cold stare.

"That wasn't very nice, you know," he muttered, rubbing his forehead where a smarting red mark had appeared.

"What?" Gilbert let the door fully close as he eyed the nurse up and down. _A male nurse? Seriously? _"It's not like I did it on purpose. You should watch where you're going."

The nurse shrugged nonchalantly, his mouth twisted into a weird grin - of which one spiked tooth appeared to be more prominent than the others. He said nothing more other than, "excuse me" as he half-skipped, half-danced into the small space next to Gilbert and slid open the door to Elizaveta's room.

"Hey Liz!"

"What the heck are _you _doing here!?"

As much as Gilbert wanted to stay to find out what had provoked such an ungainly screech from the "sickly" woman and listen in on the conversation, the door swung shut and all he could make out through the wall was the muffled sounds of a struggle and subdued shouting. _What the hell? _The albino waited patiently until the nurse remerged from Elizaveta's room, looking slightly dishevelled and a little more exhausted than when he'd walked in.

"What was that all about?" Gilbert questioned, his arms crossed over his white flak jacket in what he assumed was an intimidating position. The nurse shrugged, his mouth twisted into a mischievous grin.

"I don't know. She just doesn't like me for some reason."

The doctor felt that he would get on with this nurse if he knew him a little better, partly because of the impishness of that smile and their similar eye colours. Never had he ever met somebody who had red eyes, almost exactly the same as his, and he kind of liked that.

"Do you know where Doctor Beilschmidt is?"

"I'm right here. Who's asking?"

The nurse blinked, readjusting his scruffy scrubs nonchalantly before holding his out his hand, presumably offering Gilbert to shake it.

"I'm Vladmir Lupei, adult nurse, and I've been assigned to look after Elizaveta Edelstein. She mentioned your name…?" his voice looped upwards at the end of the sentence, harbouring a half-questioning tone.

"Yup. So, Vladmir…do you know anything about babies?" Gilbert asked. A small ripple of relief bathed his mind-set as he realized he wouldn't be working on Elizaveta alone and that he'd at least have _some _assistance. However, it mostly depended on how much Vladmir actually knew about pregnancies and delivering, since Gilbert sure as hell wouldn't be reaching up there to pull the baby out when the time came.

"Of course I do! I've been training as a midwife for at least a year!"

Doctor Beilschmidt stifled a derogatory chuckle. Somehow, Vladmir seriously didn't look like a midwife at first glance and he was finding it near-impossible to imaging the short, slightly odd looking individual helping someone deliver a baby. In fact, the image being painted in his brain was just too amusing to put to words, so Gilbert chose to push it from his mind before he burst out laughing right there and then.

"Right…well…how's about we go and get a drink and have a little chat in the break room, eh?" he murmured, glancing briefly at the watch strapped around his wrist. "I agreed to meet some of my buddies there in about ten minutes."

The pale nurse readily agreed, his eyes flashing beneath his irises. From the conversation that followed their chance encounter and the many inappropriate jokes they shared whilst in the break room, Gilbert had a funny feeling that they'd get on well with each other in the time they'd be working together. Francis and Antonio, whom he'd run in to whilst there, seemed to agree with him as well and took an almost instant shine to Vladmir's rascally smirk and roguish chortle. You could chance across some rather interesting people at _St Busby's. _

…**xXx…xXx…xXx…**

**A/N:**

_What's this?  
A finished chapter three?  
It's a miracle!  
Seriously, I thought I'd _never_ get this completed. How long ago was my last update? Way back in February? That's shocking. Really, I'm sorry for being so slow with updates and literally only giving you this measly chapter to make up for it. I swear, I'll never do anything like that again. Two month hiatus! This is what happens when homework kicks in.  
I've still got an English poem to write up and a Geography project to finish, by tomorrow. Perfect.  
At least I actually posted a chapter today though! I can't promise consistent updates, but I _will not _abandon this story. Not yet, at least. _

_Thank you for those of you have been loyal and decided to continue reading this despite my lack of motivation.  
And thank you for anyone who's read up this far! I really appreciate it.  
Please leave a review telling me what you think about the latest chapter.  
So far, just to recap (partly for myself as well):  
Feliciano/Lovino has split-personality disorder.  
Antonio and Ludwig are looking after him/them.  
Arthur has schizophrenia.  
Francis is looking after him.  
Elizaveta has pregnancy complications (which are completely legitimate! I looked up the details and everything.  
Gilbert and Vladmir (yes, he is Romania. I actually really like the design for Romania and I want to see more of him in the anime) are looking after her.  
Roderich is her husband. _

_And there's still much more to come.  
Next chapter, we'll go back to Ludwig. _

_Once again, thank you very much for reading and please leave a review! _


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